Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	Moli may have felt chatty in company. Its presence recedes back to the faint gilded sheen whenever Daisy blinks or the faint countermelody to her thoughts. Four wings open from the rotunda where she met Jessica, Blackagar, and Jemma. Her route to find the chamber containing that abstract stained glass pattern requires heading up the tightly spiralled staircase to the second floor headed due south from the central chamber. As much as 'south' exists floating in space. Elegant niches house books under glass and the occasional oriel window painted in fine detail, images that are anything but classical. Sharp intersecting lines reveal a punk spirit in one. In another, the intricacies of a circuit board projected into a circular frame could be art. The design is a little different from what she's used to -- mid-2000s technology at best, glowing a searing aquamarine and citrine shade. The doors she reaches are embossed by the same gold threads of circuitry and bisected by a stylized cyclone shape as one might see on a weather report. Beyond lies the stained glass window with the undulating patterns that move across a pale palette, mostly gold, silver, and white. Watery light swims across the glass floor, the rhythmic undulations upon the etched shapes giving form and patterns for her seasoned eye. It's code, spilling in changing formations, data processed by the second. --- A step through promises entry to another world.
Daisy Johnson	Daisy may have gone through with all the bravado in the world. But now that she is venturing alone? She wishes she was back there with Jemma and the others, there's a comfort to having company after all, specially in these situations where they are plunging into the unknown. Eyes go over the design, the art, technological. 2000s? Fine enough for her. Steps carry her upwards through the stairs and finally she reaches the finally door leading to where a fragment of Jane may be found. One from an alternative reality. Daisy rubs her hands together, then brushes them over her pants in a nervous manner. "Alright, time to go..." and she reaches to place her hands on the door, eyes taking in the code that spills and shifts. Data spilling. And just like a coder that starts learning a new code language for the first time she begins with the basics. "Hello world..." she murmurs. And then she goes in.
Jane Foster	Flashes of light breach the darkness in broken bars scrolling vertically. Copper fire transmutes the complex blurs into slipstreams of 0s and 1s stacked up together, another blink registering them as database entries, then command lines, then prompts superimposed on the black of interstellar nothing. Daisy's skin is overtaken by a cold sensation that rolls over her, a resistant film clinging to every limb and the line of her body. Another golden crackle sends tiny flames dancing across the transparent barrier and the English command prompts and code she sees starts to burn. Smoldering holes spread out, consuming what might have been time-stamped entries for a log, albeit one written in a different language. "Achtung! Kein zutritt ausser fer befugte!" The bright yellow sign enclosed in a red octagon confronts her in the twin, crooked beams cast by two recessed bulbs set in a long passageway. Then she *is* again, spat out against a graffiti-smeared wall. About 4 meters to her left is a crooked chain-link gate, padlocked and clearly not very effective given how warped and bent the wire is. She can't see the far end of the passage very clearly except as a grey oval blob, both due to distance and it being the murky hour before dawn or after the sun sets. Darkness overlaid by the smell of diesel lingers in the covered tunnel; water drips down onto concrete pitted by disuse. Cracks in the wall reveal a stretch of barbed wire fence and a thin rail track on greasy, raised gravel. She might spot a Skoda or a Trabant parked across the railroad tracks, hemmed in by high, brutalist buildings that could house blocks of apartments or offices with equal ease. Anyone raised in SHIELD likely knows the feel of such a place deep behind the Iron Curtain. Whole generations of spies were raised in these arenas, colourless and grim, austere hellholes where the likes of *Romanova* and *Barnes* operated with terrifying impunity. Perhaps less colourless here; murals in dingy orange, brick red, and pale green glorify the workers collaborating on some kind of broadcast tower where she might see if she stares hard through the gap. Inside the tunnel, the graffiti is new and old, tags overlaid atop different shapes and images. They have rainbows forking around cartoonish men or women, staring eyes painted over with lightning bolts, and a pair of lurid red lips within sight of that sorry pair of lightbulbs. Exploring further is going to rely on touch. Bottles and litter gather on the low tunnel's sides, evidence of people having been here at some point. Ashes and squashed cigarette stubs are plentiful enough. A tube runs atop the curved roof of the passage, metal body dented in places, probably to provide power to a few measly lightbulbs that don't work.
Daisy Johnson	Something something attention. That's what her low knowledge of German gets her. She has been studying languages but it's all still a work in progress. And there are so many languages she has to learn. Doesn't help that she only gets a glimpse of the warning before she is thrown out and about through the portal. But a warning sign is usually what a hacker calls a touch me button. Or a hack me, please. So she is sure she is in the right place, or in the right path. Opening her eyes again she looks over slowly. She hadn't truly witnessed what the Iron Curtain was but she has heard the stories. She has listening to Natasha's tales and the others. She has read reports. She is not in Kansas anymore. This is the real deal. Though first things first, she looks down at herself first, at how she is dressed. To make sure she doesn't contrast too much with the locals. Moli, are you there?
Jane Foster	<<*Obviously*.>> Reply comes in its typical acerbic wit, paused long enough to leave Daisy guessing, possibly. Moli settles into a brief, cracking laugh from sixteen different points, most incredibly soft but some louder in volume. All very much a teenager's perspective, though. <<*Now, you worry about that? Given what you wear to work or with the man?*>> The clothes she wore in the House of Wisdom are the same as those she wears now, though only for a given length of time. Concern rolling around in her skull could well change her physical presentation. All the same, her passenger seems blithely amused by the whole outcome in a wicked way. Graffiti on the walls, at least what little she can see, splits between German letters abusing umlauts and Ses, and Cyrillic characters viciously slashed by scratches or strings of fresher paint. Opinions then expressed through art leave little imagination. Kansas this is not, but a place defined by the harsh angles and abundant concrete hell of another space. The ground ahead of her, stained by the occasional puddle, is rough and probably trod often enough to account for the litter.
Daisy Johnson	<<Are you really going to diss me about my choice of clothing?>> Which, to be honest, was far away from what she used to wear back then. Glorious Goth phase that she had! Which speaking of, did her clothing just change? "Hold up." She blinks once, twice. Then a wide grin comes to her features, "Ooooh, just like in the Framework." she murmurs which while her memories of that time weren't the best she had been able to give way to her imagination during the final battle. "Let me show you what's a real wardrobe, Moli." Focusing, Daisy reminisces about those past times. Goth times. She -was- an acolyte of the best punk-rock fashion of the 90s after all and that's what starts to happen. Black jeans with rips on a few strategic points. Metal-pointed boots. A sweater (black, of course) with long sleeves. Make-up that makes her eyes rimmed with kohl and her lips black. Just perfect for the punk-rock scene of the 90s in Germany, and hopefully for this reality too. Once all that is done she opens her arms to the side, "What do you think, Moli?" she asks with a grin, still visualizing in real time as the code is changed.
Jane Foster	Moli's sartorial opinions as a disembodied entity -- or *entities*, properly -- may be disregarded, at Daisy's own peril. The harmonic snickering at the back of her mind holds just a shred of contempt for certain clothing, as can only be immersed in a culture wholly unimpressed with its elder generation. Goth times wrap around Daisy, though the necessary permutations in the code take moments to translate. The process isn't seamless, like brute-forcing an online translator to kludge through approximations of "I look stunning in my curb-stomping boots and torn jeans fit for the club." Some things require a bit of jury-rigging on a prompt and the jeans start off as khaki pants that tighten and slither across her legs in a faint golden crackle until they lock into place. Fat lug soles on her boots give off a vaguely militaristic look turned sideways and they also grip the uneven concrete. <<*In a place like this, don't fly your flag.*>> Whatever *that* means. Quieter, chaotic murmurs spit out a complete sentence from myriad sources, all one and not the same. The distant groan of a train approaching on the tracks outside intensifies through distorted cracks, and the dust on the ceiling starts to rain down in light patters as the old, straining engines haul heavy cargo closer.
Daisy Johnson	It's all about experimentation and that's exactly what Daisy does, fiddling with those permutations until there's a semblance of what she wanted to achieve present as her clothing. Even if she will never forget those khaki pants. Brrrrr, never again. <<No flags here.>> Daisy says, slipping her hands into her pockets as she starts to walk over to the sound of that approaching train. Maybe there's a train station she can find some people at. <<But if you have suggestions on where we can start our search I am all ears.>> She walks quietly then, slipping in a beanie hat over her head. Off to figure out where exactly she is. Maybe figuring out a plan with Jemma would had made sense before she jumped in. But time is of the essence.
Jane Foster	Flags might not be immediately obvious, but they exist in the graffiti; the hammer, the compass, the scythe. A grotesque bear lifts wired paws to the metal tubing that runs the length of the tunnel ceiling, a two-dimensional silhouette rearing back and wreathed in crackling blue and black lightning bolts. Daisy needs to move a little deeper in to distinguish the black, streaked paint from the shadows, since that one sad dim bulb can't really provide adequate illumination past the entrance and the *Achtung!* sign on the wall. Cracks litter the tunnel and the noise from the train grows louder as the engine strains to carry its cargo. Noise conveniently covers her footsteps and feeling out her confines. That weird gift of hers harbours some benefits in the concrete underpass, notably suggesting where vibrations are interrupted by fixtures built in to the place. She avoids tripping over a slightly raised manhole cover littered by debris that would otherwise help her lose her footing. Slight deviations emerge further down the dark tunnel. Air leaks out of a thin gap, situated about 10 meters ahead and to her right, away from the tracks. Getting closer might give her the feel of more energy moving behind the wall, and a low, steady thumping at tortured industrial beats would more than likely suggest music if she listens very long. A strange soundtrack, to be sure, distorted and warped along the lines of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wfy4OCjugv0 Die Toten Hosen's "Spiel mir das Lied vom Tod" and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fa7WrCqsTC0 Kraftwerk's "Computer World" through a darker remixed lens.
Daisy Johnson	A brief look is given over to the graffitii when Daisy walks closer to it, taking note of the very USSR depiction there. Yep, this is clearly no joke. She shudders briefly at the sight of it before moving ahead, thankfully the sound of her footsteps muffled by the train moving somewhere above her. That energy behind the wall is a like a pull to the hacker though, making her close in to that opening. Specially as she starts to figure out a rhythm coming from it. Industrial beats that turn to music of some kind. The kind of music she is no stranger too. "We are on the right track." she says to Moli, "Time to follow the music." which is exactly what she starts doing, hand alongside the wall as she attunes herself to the vibrations of that energy beyond it. Maybe she will find some clue as to where this Jane is by tracking down this sound.
Jane Foster	"Nooo, you're in a tunnel." Trust Moli to clarify the bad pun, but Daisy's dad joke gets her -10 points from the irascible creature in the background. Daisy's hand passes over years of graffiti and paint jobs to cover up the graffiti. Cracks in the wall patched in cement create irregular surfaces that didn't stop artists. At one point her finger skims something sharp, a thin razor jammed between the nearly invisible seam of a door. That'll sting. If it *is* a door. No handle juts out and it doesn't feel much like a seam there. But the sound percolate from the wall and around the manhole cover. Choices, choices.
Daisy Johnson	"Thank you, Miss Moli." Acidic tone, a roll of her eyes after. Yep, they have a great relationship! Right until Daisy feels that razor nicking the tip of a fingertip. "Ahh, fuck.." she hisses, retrieving her hand back with a groan at the burning sensation on her finger. Just a small cut but it still hurts on those first moments, "Really, who leaves a razor just like that on a wall?" It's when she's just about to continue that she notices those seams. The music seems to come from beyond this ...., is it a door? She frowns, putting one hand right in the middle of it, "Don't think an open sesame will work so ..." she does the next best thing, closing her eyes and focusing on the beat of the music coming from beyond, letting that beat expand through her and to her own hand as she presses that against the door, strong enough to start vibrating the surface and hopefully to reveal those hidden seams. And then she /pushes/ on it with her power, vibrations rattling against the cement, the air around shaking, making her hair flow up as if in the wind.
Jane Foster	The wall shudders. Trash sitters around on the floor and one of the cracks in the ceiling spreads, raining down dust. Squealing brakes and the concussive thud-*thud*-**thud** of the load dragged across oily gravel and tormented tracks. But nothing really stops Kraftwerk from spilling out or the reinforced door dislodged from its crooked housing. The false cement panels crash down a set of stairs, and unlike Legolas on a shield, Daisy can't surf it all the way to the bottom.
Daisy Johnson	No surfing. But there's a triumphant grin on Daisy's expression when the door falls off, <<At least my powers work in here.>> this to Moli. The hacker then steps over the rubble of the broken door over the set of stairs, careful not to tumble and twist a knee. Once past the rubble she continues her descent, feeling that music louder. "Hello? Anyone down here?" she asks to the darkness ahead.
Jane Foster	Thunderous racket gives no stealth from the door crashing onto the ground. Narrow steps eroded by use and time slope down under the road. The theme of graffiti continues here, scratches in black and possibly blue or yellow on pitted concrete wells. Ugly red lights splash dim, bruised tomato shadows across the narrow chamber. One strobes in headachy flashes clearly a warning or a definite décor choice. The tiny square of space under the lights faces another locked metal door, slashed by paint, and lacking so much as a window. It looks a lot like a maintenance door. Another variety of *Achtung!* No entry! signs in German and Russian glare outward. Music leaks stronger through the door, louder down here, but through the reverberation comes a thud lighter, and more irregular. Maybe like the sound of feet. She's probably not alone.
Daisy Johnson	More signs of warning and no entry. It's like a flame to the moth on where Daisy is concerned and maybe that's the whole point of this. Rebel against the system. Follow the forbidden track. The need for stealth is indeed put aside after that door is broken through and she calls out for someone in the dark corridors barely lit up by those red lights. No answer comes but the sound of steps is more than enough to put Daisy on alert, she moving closer to the wall now, making herself a smaller target if someone comes out with hostile intentions. All SHIELD training by May and Bobbi. Hand presses to the wall as she walks and she focuses again, feeling the vibrations around to pinpoint where those steps are and how many they may be.
Jane Foster	Calling out through a heavy metal door presents limitations on being heard. Echolocations built on vibrations run into some difficulty through the mixed media beyond a *lot* of poured concrete and the confusing puddles of sounds projected from speakers mounted in several different locations in the room beyond. She can feel the thick wall dropping back into a large roughly rectangular space that reaches further some distance. The only feature of note is a blocky structure on the side-- a stage or a wall or a bar, it's almost impossible to say. Another small set of hollows probably serve as rooms of some sort at the far end, and her vibrations just aren't powerful or clear enough to provide more than a ghost of their presence. People inside aren't many, a handful distinguished only by moving in clumps away from the door. No one loiters close to the entrance. Maybe they're familiar with raids or not sure if *that* entrance will blow in.
Daisy Johnson	A bar of some sorts? Daisy is familiar with speakeasies. And if her instinct proves her right this might just be some kind of gathering place for the rebellion. Hopefully they won't be mixing her up for someone working with the Government. Ah, well. <<Can you feel Jane here, Moli?>> She knows it's a long shot but at the least she is hoping to find some kind of inkling towards Jane's version in this universe down here. Maybe someone here will have a contact with her, but right now she has to explore further. And that's exactly what she does when she starts approaching that blocky structure over on the side, eyes and vibrational senses looking out for ambushes.
Jane Foster	First, Daisy has to get through the locked door into the potential speakeasy. That requires either a solid boot that leaves no doubt she's kicking it down, a punch of her powers or trying to finagle the lock. The end result is about the same; a lot of effort to pry open the fireproof door reinforced by a dropped bar, a thick lock, and an industrial dead bolt to get entry. Really it's up to her if she want to be subtle or not. --- On the other side of the door is definitely a club. If Kraftwerk and the speaker setup left her in any doubt, the open dance floor and cloudy glasses and bottles shuddering behind the bar make that apparent. If she used a heavy pulse of her powers, those glasses are shattered and the bottles splashing their odiferous contents on the ground in a spreading puddle. Red strobe lights, like an emergency vehicle, played outside. They do in here too, though the ambient neon worked into the walls or the metallic grid on the ceiling gives another way to see in lurid blue and green. The concrete here is slathered in abstract art from a spray paint can, smears and hard edges bleeding together. Clear signs of occupation are everywhere; a cigarette burning in an ashtray (or remains of one, if she shook the door free), a beer bottle on its side, newspapers or magazines stuffed in a corner and one down on a table. Retreating dancers or clubbers have another way out through the bathrooms they aren't afraid of taking. Three have retreated behind the closed door to shimmy into an escape route behind the loos. Another in the sound booth ducks down to hide behind the solid chunk of black plywood, probably thinking the throbbing German techno-industrial music might cover him up. In any other situation, it probably would. That leaves a last door without the universal white square for a bathroom, which basically reads "out of order" in German. If Daisy can't read that, then the woman has to figure out the path forward herself. Through the noise and hullabaloo she can detect *something* in there, but the electricity fed into the club runs through the ceilings and the floor, a bit noisy and steady. <<*Ugh, this is what you consider a good night out? No one there! Dirty!**>> Moli doesn't like puddles of alcohol. Or waste. Possibly this is also Daisy's cat in a mass hallucination, talking to her. <<*What? You expect me to know anything in here?*>> A snarl resolves into a wave of flame over her body, her head ringing with a sudden migraine aura where multiple different overlapping perspectives that lie in shattered edges ping-pong through her skull. It's singularly unpleasant to be home to a multitude. <<Right door. Back. Feels right.>> Oh, Moli.
Daisy Johnson	No boot to the door or use of powers. This time Daisy uses some tricks of the trade of her youth. Picking locks! It takes a bit but eventually she does get through it even if she does have to use a lil bit of her powers to take out the dead bolt but having it move to the side. And finally onto the club itself. Which Daisy doesn't really blame for being empty. Her fault? Maybe having used her powers on that secret door before the locked one triggered them to run. She would too honestly. But now it's too late, and it's not like she can talk German to appease them. When Moli calls for back door it's where Daisy starts to move towards, hand to the side of her head with a groan. "Great time for a migraine.."
Jane Foster	The flashing red light commonly used for emergency vehicles also might be a great visual indication someone heard the door outside clattering through the music. Kraftwerk kicks over into another less known Kraut industrial band, slithery lyrics winding around a slashing electronic back beat. Post-punk modulation slither, sinuous noise that slams out a beat beckoning her to stomp her feet or dance. *And One* or *Herzschlag* crank up the volume, definitely not the kind of music easing a headache so much as brewing one. The back door she's after is also locked, though not with quite the same formidable apparatus that she encountered and struggled to get through in the meantime. Meanwhile, whomever was hidden in the bathroom gets hoisted up and crawls out the escape, followed by the next dancer minutes later. They space it out; habit.
Daisy Johnson	Trying out the lock gets a faint frown out of Daisy. "Everything's locked here..." which in a way would be a natural thing to expect. That migraine is getting to her though. The people fleeing out the bathroom have her look that way but she doesn't pursue. They will be long gone, and she'd be hard pressed to get answers out of them. It's enough that she has most likely terrified them out of their pants already. The lock gets worked on by Daisy afterwards, carefully. It pays to have been a pseudo-criminal in her early days. Not that SHIELD hasn't honed those skills and sharpened them. Click When she hears the lock popping open she steps to the side of the door, opening it carefully. Wouldn't be nice being shot so she does so slowly.
Jane Foster	Finagling with the lock requires patience on Daisy's part, the design not so much futuristic as heavy and overengineered to resist unwanted people entering. Thin grooves worked into the interior deliver faint shocks through any metal tool she holds, the stronger electrical discharges released in pulses. The DJ hiding in the sound box waits until the door opens to slide sideways and put his feet down on the concrete floor. Slowly, he waits until he can land in a low crouch and tries to crabwalk to the bathroom without attracting attention. His pulse beats rapidly in his throat. She won't hear much at the door except the electricity humming through its walls and the powerful turn of fans beyond. The door opened a nudge reveals orangeish light and a glimpse of heavy server equipment, tall blocks that go row on row.
Daisy Johnson	With the DJ scurrying away between the pulses coming from the music all over there's a bit of relaxing out of Daisy as she begins her entrance to the hacker den beyond. Because she instantly recognizes it as any good hacker would. A sanctified place where rebellion happens. Where they fight for what is right. Daisy had her van in the past. Whoever is the owner of this place? This is their van. The faint shocks do make her grit her teeth while she works on the rest of the lock but once it's done she carefully opens it wider so she can go in, taking stock of what's around. "I come in peace." she says. Just in case there's someone waiting inside with a gun, "A friend." she looks around slowly, first at the server racks and then to the monitors, starting to approach.
Jane Foster	A counterculture nest like this one probably never stood a chance in places where a hostile regime flexed its tyrannical grip. Signs of a somewhat kindred spirit can be found from a look through easing the door open. She is alone except for one person in front of a workstation, blocked by a bank of servers wired creatively into leads in a way that would upset a network engineer. The woman hastily runs command prompts on a keyboard, flipping to the one next to her. Windows collapse and monitors to her right wink out as they run through their shutdown sequences. "Scheisse. Come *on*." That voice might be different if warped around German, muttered softly enough it's unlikely the operator even hears herself speak. She snaps a look at Daisy's reflection in the monitor glass and then edges her left hand under the desk. A pixie cut does wonders for her cheekbones and distressingly intense eyes. Posters and colourful graffiti with an artistic flare add pops of colour on walls otherwise crowded by computing equipment that's both dated by size and modern in some ways. Opening the door further swaddles her in the soft blue glow of monitors cradled in thick steel frames to protect them from the trains coming and going. Most display code in Cyrillic letters, others in familiar Latin script. Data modelling chugs away on smaller monitors tucked near the corners, out of easy reach, and the coffee mugs here are plentiful. She swivels only briefly and fixes the woman with a narrowed glare. German again: "<Yeah? You just got lost on the way to the bathroom, did you?>"
Daisy Johnson	"Now this is a blast to the past." Daisy states with some appreciation at the old look of the servers and workstations. She closes the door behind her even if she doesn't lose sight of the woman working at the computer and the monitors, "It's very 90s." eventually her attention falling on the shutdown sequences being done at the keyboard. "I can save you the trouble of continuing destroying your servers, I am not part of the regime. I am here looking for an old friend." the German then getting a brief headshake out of her. "I understand a bit but you will need to slow down. Or we can talk in English." she opens her arms to the sides, showing she's not armed. And she is even dressed all punkish! The Cool Daisy.
Jane Foster	The hackers den is on the smaller side, equipment crammed together with as much space as the low ceiling allows. Warmth generated by the workstations keeps the place this side of uncomfortable, explaining why the woman wears a t-shirt and an artfully torn jacket in the middle of winter underground. Her scuffed boots look military issue, probably like the dog tags on a cheap chain around her neck. Her hand hovers under the desk, and she hesitates long enough to make eye contact with Daisy. "You sound like a bad Stasi ad," Jane says in accented English, though she makes a better go of it than many Germans do. She has to go slower than in her native German so the trade-off is there. "What the hell are you doing in here? I locked that door." She's to the point, probably contemplating how hard she can toss the overly sharpened pencil if it comes down to defense. Other rolling chairs at workstation show signs of hard use and refurbishment, but not more than six people would ever fit in here comfortably. But there is a place to sit, regardless. "'The regime'? Bad and badder. I can tell you are a stranger and a bad actor." Moli is silently laughing.
Daisy Johnson	"That's the point." So says Daisy, "I know nothing about whoever is ruling this place, or who you are fighting against because yes, I am not from here." there's meaning to the word 'here'. Where though? She doesn't share just yet, moving to take a seat. Eyes do roam to that hand that disappeared under the table. "You aren't going to need that." She imagines there's a gun, "I was looking for someone." she ponders a moment, "Jane." a beat, followed by a smile, "You. Because I need your help." a beat, "Cliche, I know." "Also, locks were made to be broken. Being a hacker that's one of our first tenets." <<Shush Moli, I can hear your silent laughter!>>
Jane Foster	Blatant distrust follows Daisy around with a sharp-edged gaze, though the den offers very little free room to do so. Fans whirl in a constant hum to cool the space, and Jane's short hair falls in spiked licks around her nape and shoulders in the restless breeze. "I got that. Don't bother telling me you come from Stockholm." Her hands haven't left her sides, still tense, prepared to act if Daisy meets some unknown condition. Probably threatening. "Most people that need my help don't come in person. The whole point." She tips her head at the computer screens. No need for an anarcho A symbol spray painted anywhere; the place breathes a certain edge. "You better spell this out quick. I have things to do." Like shooting Stasi or shooting space guys in an Atari game? Not quite, but one of the screensavers over there kind of looks like Asteroids, if someone bothered to ennhabce the graphics quite a bit. "You have to get in line. You know how? I know you aren't English." If she was... There's a pretty ugly undercurrent to *that*. Her head tips a bit and she narrows her eyes. "You call yourself a hacker and you came. In person. Are you...." Just add her own adjective there, Daisy.
Daisy Johnson	The distrust is most likely earned after what Daisy did getting in here. And whatever were those vibrations sending the door down? Some kind of weapon? So there's a sympathetic smile on Daisy's expression even if not an apologetic one. She is here on a mission after all! To find Jane, "No. From America. Not this America though." she does get distracted briefly at the one of the screens, "Is that Asteroids? 79 version?" she grins. Adding an adjective though? That's easy. " ... mad?" she nods at that, "Yes. I am doing an hail mary in trying to save someone, and you are part of that, Jane. My belief is you are part of a whole. A part of -someone- that has been broken. Look, the details elude me fully, but imagine a program broken in various functions. You are one of those. A very important one." <<Can you show her, Moli?>>
Jane Foster	Jane's unimpressed look when Daisy tries to identify *Asteroids* isn't improved any. Her lip curls and she tosses her bangs out of her face. "We're not living in America." The hard K cracks off her tongue. "Look much different if it were." No dancing in the underground clubs. No Cyrillic everywhere, surely. The information blasted over her gets a lengthy look, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. "Are you medicated? On something not legal?" With a long pause to let her guest answer, Jane mentally goes over several possible answers and strategies. She compresses her lips to a line stained by lipstick and then makes a cutting gesture. "Let me put aside you *invaded* through a locked door. Yes, our people are broken. They have no freedom or choice." She moves to a locked filing cabinet and twists the dials around. Several times, and then she pulls out a chunky keyboard that plugs in to a round port next to a silent, dark screen. A couple button pushes later and the screen lights up, fading in like CRTs do. "You want to impress me? Put your fingers where your mouth is. I'll give you thirty minutes to complete a self-contained test." She's even polite enough to open a blank document and type out the following rapidly -- German, then English. * Reverse a linked list * Reverse a string in place * Locate the longest run in a string * Count all bits that are on in a byte * Perform itoa "Develop a diagnostic tool or run the diagnostics yourself on the code loaded in the OFIA directory," she explains simply. "I'll wait." If Daisy doesn't want to be shot in the head by an angry German hacker lady, she can... Work! Fun. <<*Seriously? Do you know how much work it's taking to keep you hidden from the shit that prowls through here? No! I'm tired.*>>
Daisy Johnson	Daisy just scoffs when Jane accuses her of being medicated or on drugs, shaking her head, "Let me guess, the Matrix never happened as a movie here..." even if this is some dark world alternative to the one she lives in, "Blue pill, red pill. You will have to make a choice soon enough." she warns Jane yet when the other hacker brings out a keyboard and starts pushing some work to do she just grins. "Give it to me." the keyboard, that is. She slides on her chair over and expression turns to one of eagerness. When she picks on the keyboard she leans back on her chair, one leg folded over to give her a support before starting to type in. First to actually take a gander on the code they use here. The differences from what she does... It comes to mind that she could most likely will that code to write itself considering the powers she used to change her clothing earlier but somehow she doesn't want to scare Jane. Might as well work honestly. As much as hacking is working honestly. "Aaaalllmooost doooneee." She says after a few minutes of getting that script written. Because of course she will develop a tool instead of running the diagnostic herself. She loves her scripts.
Jane Foster	Jane shakes her head, not exactly tentative, but clearly not recognizing the title or the term that Daisy raises. However she might want to follow that train of thought, Daisy flips tracks and rushes off to a station she cannot exactly follow. Best to focus on what she can control. She watches the other hacker cautiously, not about to trust her to be unsupervised in the server array or walled garden with sufficient security protocols to outfox a lot of programmers or security admins. Partly that's a language barrier -- a lot of the information isn't in English. Command prompts might come up that way, but file structures are undoubtedly German and some of the terms or wording might be hard to find. All the same, help files are help files. She has more than sufficient experience to tilt the balance in her favour even if she needs to refer to different nuances and try to why 'grep' is called schn -- *suchen*, as it happens -- or similar issues. But whatever place this is, the programming protocols are close enough to be understood. Or Moli is seriously playing games. Time ticks away while Daisy works. Jane sits in her chair and doesn't exactly do much except watch the product come together, glancing at a monitor to determine what's changed or taking place. Or she's busy firing off messages on an old-school hacker message board to spill the tea about how someone broke into her office and tried to intimidate her with a television or movie. Some banned thing? Sounds like it. About pharmaceuticals. Maybe it's Indian. No -- she's totally not writing that, but she does queue up a few files and splinters them through an encryption protocol to send out through diffused nodes in a time and place where the dark web doesn't exist, at least not in any form anyone would recognize. Forty-five minutes to pull off a fair bit of work. Forty-five minutes to realize the security protocols are fairly advanced, as far as things go. The OFIA directory seems to be a repository for the code to add another layered protocol with several matches needed to convert the algorithm, though it's not exploit-free. Maybe that's the point.
Daisy Johnson	If there is one thing that Daisy likes is to explore new systems. Her own version of uncovering new worlds but in this case it gives her a glimpse at the minds behind who created the coding language, mind the actual language barriers aside. Yet in the end coding is universal and that's one of the strong points that unites hackers all over the world. It's not about the language, but the ideals. Help files come in handy as Daisy works, finishing to get the code at the OFIA directory. Another glance over the code composing it, "These are some good security measures." she praises, "But not fully free of being exploited." "It -can- be improved upon." Or further exploited, but this isn't her system. That will be up to Jane deciding on what she wants to do with it.
Jane Foster	Minds creating the programming language she operates within must share a similar sense of order and expansive creativity as the developers she knows. Yet differences exist, diverging away from the rigid confines of a C++-grounded world. While the language is compiled, the multi-paradigm approach and total lack of inheritance built into the system suggests a different branch of development streaming away from whatever she might be familiar with. Quite easy to splash around in that pool to discover all kinds of fascinating functions -- so many layers of security, dynamic creation, zigzags to shelter splintered data and recombine it elsewhere. It all very much carries the hallmarks of people kitbashing what they can to make something more robust and resilient for its purposes, if not the most streamlined. The luxury of buffing out the flaws simply isn't one that its users can afford. Jane patiently waits for Daisy to ring around the digital rosey, and finally plugs in a few cords to bring up her monitor to the same computer that the hacker worked on. She's proficient in using what she has, and she runs the compiler to watch the results of Daisy's work in real time. "Nothing is perfect. Improvements will come on another day when work is not waiting." Her gaze flicks across the dark screen, turning lines of gibberish into meaning, functions into actions while the software chunks along to become something meaningful. "You know what you are doing. BIt of a strange way to complete this but acceptable. Why are you down here?"
Daisy Johnson	"Holy...!" That's Daisy when she figures out there's no inheritance built in. A good or a bad thing? Well, it's different! And different is always good. "This is wild, you guys really did get this working into an actual language that I don't feel like shooting my brains off everytime I type in.." a glance to the table where she knows Jane is hiding that weapon, "Also.., I am being metaphorical." just in case Jane gets ideas. "Full on opensource designed to go around what I imagine is the security of the Nazis of this time." She's all for mashing together programming lines until it works. It was how she learned after all. And how she got to break into SHIELD so many years back. So she is grinning wide when she is doing the last few bits of it, "Oooh, thanks. Hadn't had fun like that in a while." she tells Jane-rebel setting the keyboard aside but still in reach. Her eyes stray from the screen and back to Jane when she makes that last question. "I am looking for something." She tells her, "Something that relates to you but also to the Jane Foster I know from my reality. A piece of her that is hidden in this reality. A piece that will make her whole again if I can find it." she says, "And before you ask, no, I am not sure how to find it but I have found you already, which means there is some guiding force bringing me closer to it. And you." a beat, "Perhaps we can find those answers together."
Jane Foster	Jane raises a pierced eyebrow higher than the long fringe of her bangs, kohl-rimmed eyes shot by skepticism. "Ja, *Nazis*." Even if Daisy knows where the gun is, showing that puts the other woman a little more on edge. "They left in 1945. You mean the German **Democratic** Republic." Ironic, harsh emphasis alloys the term. "We are different, you see. The Socialist Unity Party allows free and open participation of all good socialists. Same red as our overseers from Moscow." Bitterness and mirth bleed around her voice, the explanation given without preamble. "The Politburo and its friends do not like this. Open source is our only choice." She rocks her heel lightly and keeps typing away, neatly sketching out a few more prompts. "You look for something from me. But not me. Are you high?" Once again, she has to ask. "Hiding things is how you beat the regime. The Communists can go suck it."
Daisy Johnson	As Daisy listens to Jane's explanation to the political landscape of her world there's a faint frown to her. This is clearly not the kind of world she'd enjoy living in considering how uncomfortable she appears to be right now, "When the oppressive walls are all around her we do what we can to survive. And find freedom." "And I am not high, or mad." She clicks her tongue, considering on how she can convince Jane of what she is talking about until a thought seems to get to her mind, "Wait, I got something!" her eyes widening and she starts to reach inside her pants, "No, it's not a gun. Don't shoot me." she tells the other, slowing her motions and then finally bringing out a phone. She quirks a brow at the device as it looks old and certainly not like hers would look like, "Well, it works... Hopefully." she starts to go through it, looking for pictures of the Furiae. If her phone does have any she will turn it to Jane. "This is us. Well, someone like you, me and Jemma."
Jane Foster	All the benefits that Daisy experiences in her everyday life come from decades of progressive social change and political movements, the culmination of struggle and growth spread across the years. "Survival is not always enough," Jane says, her fingers flying across the keyboard to provide a variety of recursive functions. Chunks of text appear in bland white on a black background, scrolling past with the rare glint of blue sticking out as she navigates through the folder structure. Every now and then the system spits out an error and she frowns, working around or revising some of the inputs as she goes. Familiar to the hacker's seasoned eye, surely, that she's queuing up file information to send out. *Out* being a matter of beyond a network, presumably. The chair squeaks as she swivels, glancing back at Daisy. Rarely are her eyes off the stranger; trust has no basis for growth yet. Dark eyes trained onto whatever she reaches from inside her pants accompany the subtle twist in her torso, anticipating the sudden call or need for action. Warning her not to shoot only goes so far. Her shoulders lift, and she says, "What is that supposed to be?" The phone can display and take photos, although the screen has a different quality than any phone from the 2000s. Nokias and Razrs just aren't quite the same. Still, the colours come out fairly clean. Quality leaves something to be desired for a discerning eye, anyway. Intense anticipation pulls taut. Her readiness to leap up or lash out, cranked higher to a near breaking point. Seeing Daisy, Jane, and Jemma together in a digital image might be a touch strange. Out of body, in a real sense. "I do not know what to tell you. You expect to find her -- or me -- her. A piece of her." Eyebrows loft. "I am the only one of me that I know. Maybe the authorities would argue with you. They think there are many of me. Of us. A requirement for this job anyway. As long as they know someone resists them then we have accomplished something. You want to do something meaningful, you can help me get packets out. Always can use another willing pair of hands." Because it's clear from the code test that what she has isn't complete, but fragmentary. Sound familiar?
Daisy Johnson	"This 16-color pallette is killing me here but ..., you get the drill.." The pictures do look a bit funny in the lower quality but at least their faces are recognizable, along with Daisy's SHIELD outfit. Blue and black! Is she part of some military group? It sure doesn't seem anything resembling the oppressive Governments of this world though. In a way it serves mostly to show she isn't high, or on drugs or ...., ok maybe this isn't exactly an everyday normal occurrence. Her phone is put on the table and she smiles faintly at Jane. "We are legion. It's a good tactic." Daisy not new to it, having done so in the past during her days of Hacktivism, "I will help you and....." Daisy blinks as something occurs to her, "Wait, that's it. The code, its in fragments still but once we finish it I think I will have what I need.." she rolls her chair over to get closer to Jane, picking up on that extra keyboard she was using earlier. "Time to kick some ass." she grins over and cracks her knuckles before getting to it. Time to do what they do best. Coding it up!
Jane Foster	Jane gives the photograph on the phone a good look. 256 colours at least! 16 is a bit dated even for them. The view of someone less pierced, better fed, and arguably very different from herself is a bit like seeing a filter dropped over an image. That's her and yet it feels comically off, enough to make her glance away and shake her head surreptitiously. Daisy might not be completely high. "That is not *me*," she admits with relative certainty, fingers clicking over the keyboard as she directs a chunk of information to go *somewhere*, certainly. "I have not worn my hair that long since I was a girl at school. How uncool. Is she an office worker?" As if that could be the worst possible fate ever, spoken of with the same horror reserved for people with dull accounting jobs. She doesn't look away while working. "I am a bad operator. You know the government will call me this. It is why you are hard to believe. I do work they do not like for hope that one day, things here will change. Freedom... Free thought, free words. We do not have it here. The people fighting for freedom are special, and we have those who have their freedom working to make the changes with us. I won't tell you more than that, I don't know *you*. But you get that much." She kicks the filing cabinet by accident wheeling back to her workstation. "There's a short window for me to get this out before it's a problem. Not safe to send work out all the time, you know?" Daisy might. Maybe she doesn't. In Jane's defense, she's working out where she can. "We cannot risk being here after 0500 hours. Power browns out half the time when production lines start up anyway. You disrupted me enough, you can clean up that decompiler and help me parse these down smaller than a megabyte for distribution. I keep getting errors when I pull from the directory, it seems like half the text is missing even though I can see it in front of me when I open the file up."
Daisy Johnson	"An astrophysicist." Is the answer when Jane asks about the other Jane, "The best." a faint grin on Daisy's expression. She leaves aside the whole connection to the Gods part. No need to muddle the waters with unnecessary details, specially now that she seems to be getting somewhere with this Jane. Tough nut to crack! "There are still some places like that where I come from. Too many." Daisy says with a press of her lips, "Oppression has a way of creeping up, but it's up to those that value freedom to fight it." "Well, let me see what I can do." She says about that decompiler, the familiar taptap of fingertips working on the keyboard heard as Daisy brings up a new window, then another, looking for those errors on the decompiler. But she has a feeling these fragments will be matching what is needed for them.
Jane Foster	The slight curl of Jane's lip suggests she probably doesn't believe this news Daisy imparts. Not quite a sneer, but judgy of other-Jane's job all the same. "How does *that* help anyone?" she mutters under her breath, most unimpressed. This Jane clicks her tongue against her palate and keeps typing, grumbling only sporadically when the system throws errors in blunt red or tells her it can't do that. The lack of surprise speaks volumes. Nothing new here. "We have that in common. You have a better attitude than an astrophysicist. You *fight* for it. Fight with what tools make sense for you." She flexes her bicep, pausing in her typing. Slight muscle definition in her lean build, for someone used to knowing food shortages, isn't so terrible. "I'm not using a Kalashnikov on suicidal missions. Here we make change and we do not hurt all the civilians doing it. Whole lot different than the regime." A shrug and she sinks back into the task of throwing packages across the network, into the void. If Daisy checks on the addresses these might be sent to, they're all in mainland Europe -- some to Stockholm, many to Lisbon, others in Porto, Bordeaux, and La Rochelle. Data includes chunks of code, presumably that once compiled actually means something to them. Network addresses, actual addresses, files broken up to conceal them; all of it includes splotches of information taken from some source and thrown their way. It might almost feel like they're doing WikiLeaks, in a way, but in reverse. Cables from departments rather than military or diplomatic sources, and there's no wiki technology here. The in between points are the ones that slowly catch her eye, broken splinters of fragmentary code that read as purple among a sea of blues. If properly tossed into a compiler, anyway, though it takes her a good long time to find the connection between strings and bits that never go anywhere. Meaningless dross that's out of context, the meaningless dross she needs.
Daisy Johnson	"I am sure if my Jane was here she'd give you a rather detailed, lengthy explanation on why it's important. Besides she being an actual SHIELD agent. Like me." More unnecessary details! But hey, Daisy's got to defend her Jane's rep against Rebel-Jane! "It's like I said, the world does not have these same problems you have here any longer. Not as dire at least. But we have a new slew of problems." she tells her. "Freedom is not the paradise we all hope it'd be. There will always be those that wish to cull it. Or take advantage of it." "Just don't mistake her being astrophysicist as not fighting for it. She died fighting for the freedom of our world. Well, not died. It's complicated.." Complicated enough that she goes quiet and fully focuses on the work ahead of them. "Come to mamma..." she whispers when she spots those pieces of code that call her attention, starting to compile them into a semblance of order. It's still rather meaningless but she's patient where it comes to coding. "Look here. These fragments. Do you see the connection?" she asks Rebel-Jane.
Jane Foster	Jane, being not a SHIELD agent or even remotely familiar with what SHIELD is, arches an eyebrow and looks away from the screen for just a second. "That is a bad term. A 'shield agent.' Is there a sword officer? What is that even supposed to mean?" Let it be said she could go deep into detail on acronyms in her native German or bend things properly in Russian if forced, but her accented English comes with substantial limitations and that happens to be one area they agree to disagree. "You have new problems? Good to know. We can look forward to freedom and deciding our own problems instead of someone deciding for us." Her thumb works over a trackball to stretch out the discomfort in the tendons, though the old habit on the smooth-worn rubber doesn't really do much for improving the cursor's position or anything. If there is even a cursor with the command screen maximized like that. "*Dead*. And you expect to find anything here?" Voicing her opinions is strictly unfair with a fellow hacker -- one more experienced in many ways, if not in their protocols and structures; some commands just don't exist here -- would be rude. Old World rules about hospitality have apparently somewhat survived curbstomping by Communist ideals. "What do you do where you are from? Still have a place for computers. Engineer. Systems. That all government or do you get to meet in public?" The howling red claxon alarm from before rings through the outer doors. Time slips past on the digital screen and she frowns. "We are short on time." Her chair squeaks as she rises, checking the door. Is it still locked? If Daisy broke it, not much she can do. "I see where the missing parts are. We have a bad time putting them back together when they come corrupted like that."
Daisy Johnson	"There is a SWORD officer. And also a WAND." Is Daisy pulling Jane's leg now? She sounds serious enough even if her gaze isn't on rebel-Jane but on the work over the screens, fingertips continuing to type at high speed. It's amazing how those fingertips don't just catch fire! "I work with SHIELD as well, keeping the world a better place. Or at least that's what we hope for. Things are complicated.." Apparently there's a lot of complicated things back where she comes from! "I never had a rig like this when I was hacking though." she says of the equipment Jane keeps in here, "This is hot." it takes a hacker to get attracted to these kind of places. Clandestine and off the grid. She looks up at the screen when that time starts blinking on screen, "How long? I won't let them take you if it gets to it." the lock should still be intact, even if it's been picked, "I have seen this code though. These fragments.." And she starts trying to collate them together once again, putting those missing fragments together, "Just a little longer...."
Jane Foster	SWORD and WAND are simply strange terms in a sea of unfamiliar touchpoints, but Jane lets them slide off her back. Presumably, talking about her networks would elicit equally blank looks from Daisy. Two different worlds, two unlikely stories. "Don't talk like that in front of anyone in a brown jacket. Or *anyone* around here, really," she drops her advice, tone dry, a wry smirk touching her lips and not quite warming her eyes. "Everyone thinks they make the world a better place. Actions tell the truth for that." Her chair creaks and she turns toward the door, pulling the gun from its hiding spot. "This is the end of the line. Been a lot of fun cobbling pieces together but they tell a story of failures and losses. Friends that didn't get where they needed to be." Stiffening her shoulders, she advances on the door while Daisy stays put, the only one manning a terminal at this point. "You work." Pulling a chainlink 'door' on rolling tracks in front of the metal door to the club is a pretty flimsy defense, but the concertina wire threaded through that won't let someone cut in very well. She hauls on a couple metal slats from the ceiling, the noisy descent marked by their bottoms needing to be anchored to the floor. As far as a deterrent goes, good for stopping invasion and useless against guns except to block totally clear sight lines. She kneels to bolt the slats down, hooking them into the eyelets sunken into the cement floor. The movements are practiced and ugly for the fact she is so familiar with them. "If they break in here? Probably ten minutes. If the shift is turning over, thirty minutes at most and the power will drop when the trains go offline and the factories start drawing power. Bet on ten."
Daisy Johnson	"As I said .., it's complicated. Sometimes what we think may be the right action isn't. But we deal with the losses as we can." The name of the game is multitasking apparently as Daisy continues to type on that keyboard as if she had been possessed by a demon, furiously fast, putting all those pieces of the puzzle together the best she can. "I can do it in ten." she assures Rebel-Jane, glancing over as the woman speaks of this being the end of the line, "One thing that I don't do is leaving people behind though. I am not going to be letting you get captured by them." and that' seem to be the extent of what she is willing to discuss about that. They both can play at being stubborn!
Jane Foster	Clamour erupts outside, the thuds muted heavily. Something crashes to the ground. Daisy can feel the shouts, the footsteps, the halt to drag something over the floor. Whatever happens out in the club isn't the stomp of an excited crowd or dancing of Germany's downtrodden young throwing off the cares of an oppressive regime for a night. Jane grits her teeth, gripping the gun firmly. She gives the physical defenses one good rattle and then stalks back to the terminal, dropping down on her chair. The pistol lands heavily on the desk beside her, and she starts to work. Time to swallow fear and get back to business, queuing up packets to scatter across the network and into the void. "Jail is not so bad. It gives me credit. *You* do not have papers," she points out between the maniacal clacking on the keyboard. Sounds like a train rushing through and she thumps her fist lightly against the server core. "You behave."
Jane Foster	Daisy can see the holes in data. Searching down all the disparate information scattered throughout the collection on the server hard drives is *slow*. Even her wickedly quick typing has to deal with long paths and skidding through nearly identically named folders or directory trees buried deep. Unlike her own time, transferring files of any size happens at a relative snail's pace. Fiber optic cables strung across the Baltic Sea or under the Atlantic hasn't taken the same priority. She scrapes patterns and then has to work her way back to find where the next series picks up, painstakingly stitching segments of information together to throw out there. She can only hope the pieces reconnect to a server room in the ethereal nothing of the void. Banging on the door and rattling bursts of the trains grinding to a halt high above push down on her awareness, time closing in with the certainty she doesn't have enough. She has the pieces, but disorganized chunks to put back together without a Readme file. SHIELD's siren of systems has the lack of her life to go. Can you die in the Underworld? In an alternate reality? <<Yes. >>
Daisy Johnson	"Darn it, my kingdom for SSD drives..." Daisy finds herself muttering as the bottleneck is found on those server hard drives. Data transfer is her ultimate nemesis. She lets out a sigh and sets the keyboard to the side briefly, letting the copies continue as the patterns follow the algorithms she has been setting, the ones reconstructing the data back at those servers she had found before. The ones that had Jane's corrupted form. Maybe this will help. "The reconstruction of the data is on it's way." She announces to Rebel-Jane, looking her way, "How are things looking?" she frowns a bit, listening to the rain outside, "They are going to find this place sooner than later." she tells her, "I can get you out." she starts getting up from her chair.
Jane Foster	"Typical." That's not a vote from Jane for good or bad, though the draw-down in power causes screens to flicker and the room to dim further. She doesn't waste time with fussing around for a torch, pulling out a flashlight and flicking it on, facing backwards. Anyone walking through will get a bright light in the face, and it breaks up their silhouettes. Her typing rattles along at speed, clashing with the noises outside. Something grows louder, angrier. A rough thump bashes into the door. Her body tenses and curls in, hurriedly executing a few triggered scripts to send batches and bursts of information out. Automation is a wonderful thing even here. Even with the shouts outside, the faintest sounds thrumming through. They already *have* found this place. She looks sharply over at Daisy and offers a wan smile. "That's the important part. Getting the information out. How do you think you can get me out?"
Daisy Johnson	Daisy rolls her shoulders once she is out from her chair, eyes still up on the ceiling. Then over the walls. Eyes close a moment almost as if she was listening to something beyond the perceptible. In reality she's sensing the vibrations of the place, the weak points. Where to break through. There She re-opens her eyes and smiles briefly back at Rebel-Jane, "I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve still." she winking mischievously, "Say your goodbyes to this place." she tells Jane. "We are leaving." It's subtle but soon enough the wall start shaking, some debris lifting from the ground as Quake focuses on her powers, rising her hands up to the ceiling, looking for that weak spot. It is time to create an opening out of this place.
Jane Foster	Jane looks askance at the posters and the computers, the screens and the little hub painstakingly built by her own hands and those of others. She grabs the gun and pulls open a drawer, yanking out a notebook. Nothing significant, a battered old thing, dog-eared pages showing evidence of use. "I am sad to say goodbye," she says quietly, and then turns the gun at the door. Someone has brought a ram to smash into it, and every collision resonates with a deafening clang. Dents haven't formed on the inside but they will soon. Daisy can sense the people outside, moving around. The trashed club won't be repaired soon. Above her the trains have stopped moving and the electricity flowing weakly at a trickle as larger generators tip over. Shift change, time change. The weak spot in the concrete is above the servers a third of the wall along the ceiling. If she hits it hard enough, she can use the inherent weaknesses in the poured concrete to tear it apart. A lot of rubble and debris to come down, but it will take them up to the tracks.
Daisy Johnson	Tension rises as Daisy's powers come manifest, the shaking of the walls more intense. Is it an earthquake? "Come closer to me." she urges Jane, one of the keyboards falling to the ground due to the rattling until there is sudden silence. No vibration. The quiet before the storm. Unnaturally so. BOOM The explosion comes in the next second as Daisy focuses on that weakness on the wall, a shower of debris being shot upwards as she uses her vibrations to shake and rattle until an alternative exit is formed. Rubble comes down of course yet it miraculously does not hit them as a vibrational shield is formed around the two of them, like a dome, both her hands up as she forces vibrations to her will. "Come." She reaches with one arm to wrap over Jane's waist if she lets her. And once she does? It's time to fly out of there.
Jane Foster	Jane doesn't need to be told twice. Saving her own skin may be ingrained in there somewhere. Regrets for losing her lab can be faced another day. She squeezes in closer to Daisy, gun pointed down, since no one needs an accident in the face of peril. *Bang!* The collision of the ram into the door probably has jack-booted feet to go with it. Organized and rhythmic attacks on the poor metal slab mean it's more than likely the Stasi out there rather than friendly angers. Shouts join the mess of noise when rubble raves in the building, bouncing off the metal kit and smashing into the shelves. Monitors take the brunt to their shattered glass, wires tearing away with posters. "Farewell and good night," mutters the brunette in German. She salutes to the gaping hole overhead and doesn't waste time grabbing onto Daisy. The way out is several meters of poured concrete, rock, and then greasy pebbles for an active train line. Rails hang drunkenly over the gap, a chunk of the narrow gauge track that hasn't fallen in, though punching through that won't be too hard. It's very early in the morning and the few floodlights in the area mostly focused around the platforms where industrial workers load or unload stuff. Of course, a few security people are always about. Way too many snitches are in the nature of this Germany, as Daisy's history books told of East Berlin, Dresden, and other cities behind the Iron Curtain. Someone shouts if they spot the women.
Daisy Johnson	Liberty erupts suddenly out of rubble and debris, rock exploding upwards to create an opening that both women can fly up and into the train line above. A quick assessment tells Daisy they need to find cover, and fast, before shouts of alarm bring attention to their position. "Let's move. We can lose them in the city." Or so she hopes. A nod towards some buildings in the distance is made and then it's time to move. Time to get into the streets of Berlin, find Jane a safe spot to be and hopefully find a way back where she came from.
Jane Foster	The train lines sit an industrial area. Some things never change, but the factories and warehouses pressed close together work to advantage there. Any working knowledge of Berlin won't help Daisy here except the river and its islands, but Jane knows *her* city. She grabs Daisy's arm in a reversal of their fortunes and bolts over the oily gravel and lines. "Jump!" she hisses when getting to the narrow track, letting the other woman go long enough to clear the rail. She may be skinny but has enough energy for that. Obstacles ahead beyond the shouting officers: they have to thread through the stationary cars, hopping over couplings, and reach the platform where overalled workers hover around. People might be milling around or ready to intervene, but Jane shouts in Russian, "<<Police found a mine by a warehouse!">> Repeated in German, it's enough to cause chaos. Running straight into a group might seem like a fool's errand but groups and large metal train cars provide cover. A short hallway leads to a concourse complete with ugly mural of workers on the wall and a tangled metal statue -- *Progress and Victory** -- of twisted girders and what might be a plane prop. She points to the doors that read 'Exit' in German, brightly green.
Daisy Johnson	As they jump over past the rail and join past a group to mingle through Daisy brings her beanie hat tighter around her head, hands into her pockets. Just a normal citizen moving about really! No rebel rib showing. They weave and move past until they get to those doorways, "This is it." Her tone with the kind of finality that is telling. Their time together is at an end, "It was good to see you again, even if you are not the Jane I know. But I am sure she'd be just as proud." a bittersweet smile on Daisy's expression, "What we did here will help us immensely and I hope in some way it helps you as well, and what you are doing here." a final nod from Daisy before reaching to give Rebel-Jane a hug. And then it's time to go towards the doorway. Back to her reality.
Jane Foster	"Something new will rise out from the pieces." Wreckage in her flawed English or German is hard to find, but Jane can hope her explanation covers. "If not me, than others carry on." Her smile is thin as they hastily hug, though the pursuit through the station concourse grows noisier. Civilians might be put off, but plainclothed police and their informants close in on them. Arms squeeze tight. "Do better than we did. *Fight*." Then, as Daisy starts into a run, she'll feel the push of two hands behind her to hurry her on through the door. A last farewell in case there are any thoughts of turning back. The brunette bolts down the hallway past a string of ticket booths and travel posters for workers paradises, a last flash of darkness and sass within a sea of dun coats, briefcases, and pistols. Warnings shouted float above the crack of gunfire, the groan of a door slamming open. Or is it *thunder*? The door opens and the pale dawn light greets the Inhuman hacker. Rosy air thick with humidity enfold her, the promise of storms on her lips and lifting her hair. A step forward and the world *twists*, jolting to the side. Copper fire ignites around her, long streamers bleeding from her arms and her hair and her torso. Wispy, ephemeral streamers blur out the shock of grey concrete and bland steel, brutalist architecture washed out. When it comes together, she is on her knees in the light-speckled chamber where she stood before. The undulating fractal pattern around her in stained glass no longer shifts so radically, glowing in a stable state. What looks like coloured patterns is, in fact, data; strings inscribed in the tiniest imaginable font, too small to distinguish on its own, stacked into visible shapes. So much of it, impossibly complex amounts. A bullet-shaped crystal shard drops from her coat, landing on the floor with a *ting!*